In A Late Hour

Though all men should desert you
My faith shall not grow less,
But keep that single virtue
Of simple thankfulness.
Pursuit had closed around me,
Terrors had pressed me low;
You sought me, and you found me,
And I will not let you go.
The hearts of men grow colder,
The final things draw near,
Forms vanish, kingdoms moulder,
The Antirealm is here;
Whose order is derangement:
Close-driven, yet alone,
Men reach the last estrangement—
The sense of nature gone.
Though the stars run distracted,
And from wounds deep rancours flow,
While the mystery is enacted
I will not let you go.